In the City of the Nightmare King

by V. S. Santoni

  I woke with a shock at the slamming of the front door. An unfamiliar silhouette waited in the entryway. Alison flipped on the lights. She didn’t look like herself. Her gently flat-ironed hair fell into curls, and she wore a soft pink eye shadow, almost the same color as her skin. Alison normally used foundation to further pale her already ghostly complexion, but now her skin looked radiant. She hung her backpack on the rack near the door and approached warily. “Well? What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “The makeover? Tiffany finally convinced me to get one. Is it stupid? Do I look bad?”

  “Makeover? Alison, what’re you talking about?” It galled me that she wanted to talk about makeovers at a time like this. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. It read 8:45. “Ali, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “I went to Tiffany’s house—it was huge; she’s freaking gross rich—anyway, some of the other girls from school were there too. They were all cheerleaders. They said they wanted to do my makeup because I was pretty.”

  “Okay?” I said, waiting for her to explain further.

  “J . . . what if this place isn’t all that bad?”

  “What’re you talking about, Ali? This place is a prison.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What do you mean how do I know? I went and talked to Brian Johnson and found out he’s really Luther Dorian in disguise. He told me this place is a prison the Institute built in Everywhen. It’s called the Dreamhaven.” Alison’s skin took on a sickly color. “He said the people in this place aren’t real either—he called them copies. He can get us out of here too. There’s a gateway in Darkwood Forest that leads back to our world. But it only opens on a full moon. We have to leave tonight, or we won’t get another chance for a month.”

  “How do you know he isn’t lying?” Alison asked, her voice weak.

  “Because he knew who I was, Ali. He recounted everything that happened at the Institute. How could some random old guy I’ve never met before know all that?”

  “How do you know I’m not one of those . . . things? A copy?”

  “Because I’m not convinced our wizard senses are totally gone, and I just know it’s you. And that boy at school that looks like Hunter, that’s really him too.”

  “Why’re our memories patchy?”

  “Luther said the Institute mind-wipes everyone they throw in here, but for some reason it didn’t work on us . . . not all the way, at least.”

  “It worked on Hunter.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to go? Nothing here is real, Ali.”

  “It seems pretty real to me.”

  “It’s not, okay? It’s all bullshit.”

  “Maybe I want it to be real. Maybe I’m sick and tired of the ‘real world’ and I just want to stay here.”

  “You can’t keep running from reality! You already did this once.” Ali got quiet. Back at the Institute, her obsession with living out fantasies in Everywhen got her lost in the dreamworld, forcing me to magically join minds with our friends—called a dream rave—to save her.

  “I told those girls I was trans.”

  “And?”

  “They didn’t care. They just kept talking about how pretty I was. They invited me to Scott’s party tonight.”

  “Ali, they’re trying to trick you. They’re trying to keep you here.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like.”

  “Come on—”

  “I’m not doing the four hundred–meter sprint at the Oppression Olympics, J. I’m just saying, you don’t know what it’s like to get clocked by some random jerk who thinks you’re trying to trick people. Everyone constantly acts like I’m some oddity to be debated about in a discourse. I’m sick of people treating me like I’m a fucking concept.

  “I was at school all day and no one said anything mean to me. Everyone was nice, and told me how pretty I was, and they all wanted to be my friend. No one acted like me being there prompted a very special episode of Misthaven High. Maybe I’d rather live in some shitty dreamworld. It’s better than the other one. Everyone accepts us here. There’s no Institute. No bullies.”

  “Ali, we’re in the Institute. This is all a bunch of bunk. The bullies are still out there, they’re just manipulating us into thinking there’s nothing going on. This is what bullies do: they make you think you’re crazy, that their version of the world is better, but it’s not. You can put on all the makeup you want, buy new clothes, join the cheerleading team, and go to the homecoming dance with all your new friends, but it’ll never change the fact that we’re living in a lie.”

  Alison’s face went completely expressionless. Shutting down was second nature to her—as much as Alison played tough, she hated arguing, and she hated it even more when I was right.

  She headed to the stairwell. “I’m going to my room.”

  “We need to get out of here and go meet up with Blake and Luther.”

  “I need a sec, okay?” Her voice shook, like she wanted to cry. She didn’t want to leave this place. Much as I longed for that to confuse me, it didn’t. I craved this happy ever after—a school that accepted us, people who liked us. But no matter what I wished for, Dreamhaven remained a lie. We can only shut our eyes to the fire burning all around for so long before we start to sweat.

  We risked Dad’s impostor coming home any minute, but Alison needed time to let everything go. I gave her some space, and walked upstairs to my bedroom and waited in the doorway, staring at all the sealed boxes there. Even if nothing here really existed, the Institute had molded it after my memories. The tape peeled from one box atop a stack near the door. The PS4 and VR headset Dad got me last year rested on newspapers inside. One time I forced him to play it, and it scared the hell out of him. He cracked me up ranting and raving about how realistic it seemed. I wanted to set it up and play another game with him, just to watch him freak out, but my real dad forgot about me months ago. Everything about this cruel place only served to remind me that my old life no longer existed. No family. No future. Nothing.

  The front door creaked open and deep, heavy thumps echoed in the stairwell. Dad’s copy, no doubt. He must’ve been headed to bed. Hopefully he didn’t come in and start talking to me. My elementary school yearbook was hidden under the PS4. I pulled it out and looked inside. Alison’s picture was next to mine, both of us looking goofy. Nothing seemed as scary back then as it did now. Children fret about imaginary things, but make-believe monsters get very real with time.

  Another plodding footstep—the oddly labored movements unsettled me. My calm attempts to continue perusing the yearbook evaporated when another thundery step announced he’d made it to the top of the stairs. The door was nudged open then, Dad’s copy looming there, watching me like a menacing shade.

  “Juanito,” he said, voice twisted into a shrill croak.

  I backed deeper into the room, searching for a weapon, but nothing caught my attention.

  “Juanito!” he screamed, frightening and erratic.

  “Dad?” I said sheepishly, hoping to trick the copy into believing that I didn’t know anything.

  “Juanitooooooo.” He chuckled. “Juanitoooooooooo, Juanitooooooo, Juanitooooooooo.”

  “You okay, Dad?” I asked, still feigning innocence.

  “You can’t guard your thoughts from me,” the copy said. “Whatever you know, I know.” The impostor stepped into the room, and when the moonlight hit him, I glimpsed another man’s face beneath Dad’s—a younger man, late twenties, with brown curtained hair and blue eyes. No doubt remained: a Smith was driving Dad’s copy.

  “I got a call from your school while I was at work,” he said. “They said you didn’t show up for any of your classes. Again. Did you skip school again, Juanito?” I kept quiet. “I tho
ught we talked about this. I’ve always trusted you, but lately . . . lately things have been different.” The copy lowered his head. “You know, first it was your mom—” He dragged his feet across the carpet, lumbering toward me.

  “What do you mean?”

  The copy’s eyes grew large, wild. “You know what I mean, Juanito. It’s the whole ‘gay’ thing. You know your mom didn’t know how to handle that.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  He spoke lowly. “I’m talking about the divorce, Juanito. I’m trying to talk to you like an adult. I’ve always given you a lot of freedom because I trusted you. It’s time you pay back some of that trust. Behave like an adult. Speak to me like an adult.”

  His manipulative vitriol got to me. I dropped the act. “You’re not my dad. Stop fucking with me.”

  Suddenly, the weirdness vanished from his voice and he spoke plainly. “It’s your fault our marriage fell apart. Why did you think we put you in that boarding school, that Christian boarding school?” he said, hissing the S in Christian.

  “I said knock it off!”

  Dad’s copy approached the vanity near the door. He wobbled the frame back and forth. It squeaked on its hinges. A giggle escaped his lips. Then he rammed his head into the mirror and cracked it, and he stayed there, pressed against the impact, blood trickling down the glass. Slowly, he twisted his forehead into the cracks, and the sound of ripping flesh and crunching glass filled the air. Bloody shards fell to the floor.

  “You’re trying to ruin my life, aren’t you?” The copy removed his bloody face from the glass and gritted his teeth. “This is all your fault!” he pointed a long finger at me. “Everything is your fault.” He came closer, still pointing an accusatory finger at me. “This is all your fault. Our lives have been ruined because of you. Your mother and I were happy until you came along.”

  My bedroom door suddenly slammed shut of its own accord, trapping me with the copy. “Don’t you feel like you owe me?” The copy closed the space between us, backing me against the writing desk under the window. Its voice warped, becoming imp-like. I briefly considered prying open the window to escape. Even if I hurt myself jumping out, at least I’d get away from this damn thing. The copy giggled again, then covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know why you’re so scared.” He uncovered his face and revealed one like mine, though its milky eyes lacked pupils. Something flat and solid pressed up against my back. I glanced quickly—the desk behind me had been turned into a rock wall. Under me, the carpet melted into quicksand. I struggled to free my feet, but the muck gripped them like cement. The copy was using magic. He approached me, a sinister grin on his face.

  “Alison!” I shouted. The copy snatched my neck and drove his thumbs into my throat. I pressed down on his wrists and yanked, but his daunting strength enfeebled me, my struggling only provoking a tighter grip.

  “Shut your mouth!” he yelled, viciously wrenching my throat until the air fled from my lungs. The pressure welling in my head brought tears to my eyes. I fought to suck in a breath as everything around me grew blurry.

  Crash!

  The copy hit the floor at my feet, blue ceramic shards tumbling to the carpet. I fell on my knees wheezing painfully. Alison looked down at the copy in horror. She had smashed the lamp on my nightstand over its head. Blood matted the copy’s hair, but his chest still rose and fell. Strangely enough, even though the Smiths bore the power to control the copies, the copies themselves were still subject to this world’s laws, meaning that things could, indeed, die in the Dreamhaven. And that included us.

  Under me, the quicksand had reverted to floor, and the wall behind me had also disappeared. Alison pulled me to the door. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here.” I staggered after her, still clutching my throat and coughing.

  We raced downstairs. The front door was gone, in its place another wall. We ran into the sunroom, but another barrier had replaced the French doors that led to the lanai. “You two had better respect adults!” The copy yelled from upstairs. A few jarring thumps in the stairwell signaled his descent.

  “Johnny,” Alison said, “what the hell is going on? Why’s your dad trying to kill you?”

  “I told you, Ali, that isn’t my dad. It’s some copy of my dad. I think there’s a Smith controlling him.”

  “That thing coming after us is a Smith?”

  Before I could answer, the murky-eyed doppelgänger peeked his head through the archway between the sunroom and kitchen. “You two have been very naughty.” He came into the room, unsteadily pointing a butcher knife he’d taken in the kitchen. “You should listen to adults when they tell you what to do.”

  “Sorry about the whole lamp thing,” Alison said nervously as we backed into a wall. “I kind of overreact when someone’s strangling my best friend.” We still hadn’t thrown away the last owner’s coat rack, so I snuck behind Alison and headed for it. “Where’d you get that lamp anyway? Pier 1? It was kind of fancy. I’ll get you a new one if you want, Mr. D.” Her skittish joking bought me enough time to reach the coat rack. I lifted it, shouldered her aside, and swung the base, but the doppelgänger caught the pole.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” the copy said. He snapped the coat rack with unimaginable force, sending wood shards everywhere. Then he snatched my shirt with one hand and flung me across the room. My back hit the wall and I crumpled to the floor, breathless.

  Still waving its knife at Alison, the copy corralled her into a corner. “Can you believe he did that?” he asked. “My own son. I should slit his throat. But I think I’ll slit yours first!” He stabbed at Alison, but she screamed and sidestepped the attack, and he buried his blade into the wall. Enraged, he jerked the weapon back out and took another swipe, but she dodged that one too.

  Unbelievable pain shot through my back and legs, but I shored up the strength to stand. The broken rack’s pointy end lay on the floor near me. I nabbed the makeshift stake and headed for the copy. He reeled back with his knife, but I drove the stake through his shoulder before he could take another strike at Alison. The copy spun around, screaming and reaching for the stake sticking out of his back. The coat rack’s base waited nearby. He finally pulled the stake from his back right as I smashed the base across his face. But he kept standing. He swung left and right, slashing wildly. Alison snatched the poker from the holder near the fireplace and drove the hook into his head. For a second, the copy didn’t even know what had happened. Blood dribbled from the wound and the copy stopped moving. Then, slowly, it turned to Alison, blood trickling from his eyes and mouth, and collapsed. The copy briefly reverted into a Smith with brown hair and blue eyes. On his blazer’s lapel, a nametag that read Žižek.

  In a blink, the Smith’s body vanished.

  “Come on, we’re getting out of this place,” I said, pulling Alison to the door with me. We needed to hurry back to the trailer park, find Blake, then go find Hunter. Not knowing Hunter’s location made things harder, but we were running out of time.

  Chapter 8

  Dad didn’t need his car anymore, so I took his keys off the hook in the kitchen and handed them to Alison. “Are you serious?” she said.

  “We don’t have enough time to walk.”

  “This may be a dreamworld, J, but if we get pulled over, that’s it. Game over. Fin.”

  Her point gave me a sobering pause. We didn’t possess the magic to dream up licenses, and if we drove out like this, we risked getting caught and having our plans waylaid, if not destroyed.

  “Hope you’re ready for a walk.”

  The road between the Pines and Misthaven Housing Community was four miles long, and although a straight shot, it still took an hour and a half to walk. Even worse, nighttime turned the broiling summer heat into a sopping humidity that soaked our clothes. Alison didn’t say anything the whole way but folded over, panting, when we reached the trailer park. “If I ha
ve to walk anymore, my feet are going to start a union and argue for better pay and safer working conditions.”

  “We need to find Blake before the mist comes. Come on.”

  Our feet wrecked, we got to Blake’s foster home. I stepped on the cinderblock porch and knocked loudly on the screen door. It shook the whole trailer. Alison leaned against the side and rubbed her feet through her shoes. Blake opened and saw me standing there, then he looked around the corner and spotted Alison.

  “Hey, boyfriend,” Alison said.

  Blake darted outside, slid his arms around her, and leaned in for a kiss, but Alison stopped him and pointed at her lips. “Lips . . . chapped . . . need . . . water.”

  Realizing that Alison teetered dangerously close to passing out, Blake brought us inside. The trailer smelled like patchouli and lemongrass, and a window unit pumped cold air into the room from behind an entertainment center. Blake’s foster brother, a pale boy with a blond buzz cut and a scar that split his brow, relaxed on a sectional, watching a noisy TV show. He gave us a look that bordered between nasty and curious. I recognized him from school although we hadn’t spoken. His tough-kid, chronic bitchface belied the fussy book stack near him with nothing but gay romance novels.

  “Hey, Ben,” Blake said, “these’re my friends, Alison and Johnny.”

  “You’ve been home all week. Where did you meet them?”